above ground 2


Chapter 2

May 13, 1985


Word expresses mind like grape into wine.

I wash my voice with wine

in the cool shade upon a russet carpet beside a staff of sunlight with wings of sunshine lit by the finely particulate dust in the air  that alight on my brown wooden chair coiling in mockery of the living vine.

A Forever Afternoon,

yours and mine,

alone in freedom, unwatched,

perhaps heard

searching for my voice

to speak the word.


What is this symphony of imagery?

Where in the DNA?

………..Where was I?  Oh, yes, today…

…this is the truth.

It starts from below my belly button, enfoliates,

blossoming in my finger tips, synapsing over these keys

from think to ink.


I love the creamy middle

But too much it resembles middle age, pasty, soft

with a hard crust.

I must not do something.


This is now today

I’ve seen it before, so I know

when I say:


TV: God, Savior, Friend, Dream

no arms, no legs

composed of not stone, yet silicon

poised in perfect function

buried like a sculpture inside

our perfect minds, alone.


The world has never known better.


What leads to violence?  Violence leads to the Self.

Fear?  Is it fear?  Is it?

He was just an old man, only

he wore a plastic lid for a hat,

a flannel shirt tangled around his gnarly whittled torso…

was it, yes, a dress I say, a ballet tu-tu

wound so neatly about his waist.

He placed the empty brown flask, dotted with sand,

upon the table, in the patio of the Snack Stand

and then he shuffled away with a plastic sack of sticks,

sipping a paper cup of coffee.

That was his mistake.

It was the Snack Stand girl who reported the old man.


Hands express word into air, sand, wood,

(sometimes back into jaws again).

Fingerfuck no evil!



seems to be the net to catch

fingerling thoughts

on their way to spawn words.

Be careful of your own net,

that lattice rhythm

is for the commercial trawler.


I’m not being serious,

I’m sorry, and so now I will get back in



How many words can I name?

Their fame and clarity

frighten me

(fear leads to violence leads to self, forget).

What do I know?

Little yet.

Except that a family of dolphins

lolls in the scrolling waves.  Waves tatter away,

wiping the sand white.

What a sight!


What kind of world can I use?

(what kind of a world have you got?)

My God, think what I forgot!

Feel around the perimeter,

the edge of memory, dark, and overgrown

returning to the unknown

on the way to the nameless.

I hold my head,

knowledge slips through my fingers,

lips flutter,

cries crumble,

a better world

embalmed in a tear

within sight, lingers.


What is the point?

Don’t you know?  Don’t you?

Why not?  I’ll show you,

when to do so I shall want

(not to flaunt dipsysyntacky meter

to peter out before today

with only all this

left to say).


Carol!  Call Diana.  Call Vicki.



Now, without the phone ringing

I can wring these phony words

for all a word’s worth

What is a man without wit?

A braver man?

(a beer stein beckons me

in my hemming

and hawing way).


The bright bars of sunlight

rise upon the dark wood of the panel wall.

Sky in the alleyway

turning grey slowly,

beneath notice

ripens with shadow.


(What’s on TV?)


Visit My Library: ASH Library

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5 thoughts on “EVERY DAY ABOVE GROUND (Chapter 2)

  1. ASH, I’ve been terribly behind in reading so I just got to this today. I don’t read your work on the fly — that would be a sin. Your imagery is amazing. I need print and read it again, next to part 1.


    • Misirlou: You are so kind. I think of the words to Jimmy Durante’s Make Someone Happy. That is the true gold (I find too late)

      My own blog : ASH-fiction.com; My Library: ASH Library; My AMAZON.COM SITE New on Amazon: My 4th collection of short stories: WORDS TO THE WISE My first online book review: Click here



  2. Pingback: THE TABLE OF MALCONTENTS 6/8/2013 | ASH

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